Four Ghosts and a Ring
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: Because sometimes, we need a little help from those who love us... Patrick Jane has usually spent the anniversary of the worst day of his life, alone. But this year, he has HER. Teresa. And with a little help from his past, maybe he can finally take off that ring.


It was the anniversary of the deaths of Angela and Charlotte Jane.

Teresa had been dreading this day, yet thinking of it just the same. It was the first time this day had rolled around with Patrick and her as a committed couple.

She had not really paid much attention to the anniversary of the worst day of Patrick's life before. Oh, she'd seen bits and pieces, had a hint of how he'd reacted in the past, but she wasn't sure how he'd react now that they were together. This day was also so much more-it had affected hundreds of people-from all Red John's victims and their families to the CBI. And though intrinsically, she knew that it was good for Patrick to grieve the loss of Angela and Charlotte Jane, even so many years later, he was also the person she held closest to her heart-really the only person she had ever held this close-and his pain was also her pain. She would do anything to help him.

So this year, she resolved to make this day as easy as possible for him. She wasn't going to point it out to him, or make a big deal of it.

They were at her home, and she figured he would probably skip work and go to the Airstream. So, she awoke at an uncharacteristically early hour, went to the Airstream. She prepared a thermos of boiling water, some of his favorite teas, and his special turquoise teacup, which she'd managed to sneak out of the FBI break room cabinet the night before.

Leaving everything on the Airstream's counter, she also added a note: "You are not alone. Teresa."

Quietly closing the door to the Airstream, and locking up, she went to work.

* * *

As Lisbon guessed, Jane did not show up at work. She texted Abbott on his behalf; Abbott, for his part came over to her desk, lightly tapped her on the arm, and told her to "Hang in there."

After work, she sent a brief text to Patrick, letting him know she was fine and going home. To her surprise, she found him quietly puttering about her kitchen, preparing dinner.

Patrick had indeed spent the day at the Airstream, contemplating the life he had lost when two special lives were taken. Unlike previous years, his thoughts today were not wholly consumed by Angela and Charlotte, but increasingly by Teresa and their possible future together.

He reached into his pocket and fingered Teresa's note. He still had no plan for how he was going to broach the subject of definitively leaving law enforcement with Teresa.

* * *

Night Time

Their evening had passed in comfortable companionship, without mention of the importance of the day. After dinner, they made their way to the Airstream. Teresa had to attend a special training session at the firing range the next day, so she decided to go to bed early. Patrick chose to go sit outside the Airstream and indulge his insomnia, accompanied by a cooler with an alcoholic beverage or two, and a book he could read under the lights.

Later, it was dark; with midnight still a few hours away. Patrick slumped in the camp chair, dozing off...wondering if Teresa was sleeping. Finally, the slight humidity of the day yielded to a nighttime chill; the chill got to him and he dozed off completely, his book gently falling to the grass.

Wait, was that a raccoon? A scritch-scratching sound caught his attention. The Airstream's canopy creaked and shook. Patrick bolted upright as his chair swayed from side to side.

What the...?

"Mom?"

Patrick rubbed his eyes. His mother-his MOTHER!-seemed to be standing before him, shrouded in blue. This could not be...why was his dead mother here? She'd been gone for so long...since his childhood. As Patrick rubbed his eyes again, his mother moved towards him. He began to shake; he wanted to call for Lisbon to help him, but couldn't.

"Mom?" he whispered again, and rubbed his head. He must have bumped it against the Airstream doorway.

But...it...she...was still there, still coming towards him!

Patrick's face involuntarily broke out into a grin. "Mom!" he whispered with more animation.

His mother turned to face him, with her sweet, forever young, and oh-so-kind and loving face that Patrick remembered so well.

"Who...who are you?" Patrick asked, his voice trembling.

"Ask me who I was," the figure replied.

"Who were you then?" Patrick replied, agitated.

"In life, Patrick, I was your mother."

"You...you remember me?" Patrick asked, looking up hopefully at her, the look on his face exactly the same as the look he'd had as a three-year-old seeking his mother's approval.

"Ah, my boy," replied the figure, coming closer and reaching out a gossamer hand, running it along the edge of the table.

"Do you want-can you come sit here with me?" Patrick responded, a sense of wonder in his voice.

"That I can, son, that I can." And the figure drifted up as if on a cloud, up over the edge of the table, and suddenly was seated next to Patrick.

"I've missed you...Mom..." Patrick continued.

"I'm so sorry I had to leave you, Paddy. I wish I could have stayed. Sometimes I did not like the man you turned out to be."

Patrick swallowed hard. "Dad...dad turned me into someone I didn't want to be when you left..."

"Son, no excuses. Paddy, I need to ask you something. What the hell are you doing with yourself?" the figure purporting to be his mother asked, a scowl now on its face.

"Wha...What do you mean?"

"You're screwin' up your life, Paddy," his mother intoned.

"I don't understand..."

"Paddy, you're sitting here outside in the cold when over there," his mother shrugged in the direction of the Airstream, "are happiness, light and warmth."

"Today was the day they were killed..." Patrick responded. "I need to be alone, to think, to remember." He looked down at his ring.

"And acting like this honors them how? To know that you have the most wonderful thing any man could want, but are pushing it away?" the figure told him. "You're not living, son."

"But I don't deserve to be happy..."

His Ghost mother threw her spectral arms up in the air. "And what about my little granddaughter? How is putting your life on hold honoring her?"

Patrick looked at the figure in surprise, shook his head, ran his arm over his forehead, and sighed. "You know about Charlie?"

"Of course I know her," his mother replied. "But never you mind that; I've come to tell you something."

The figure then stood, small but somehow tall and proud, next to him, leaning towards him.

"What...!" Patrick whispered. "What do you mean?"

"You are blessed with a love you don't seem to cherish!" the figure proclaimed. "I thought I taught you well, I loved you well, but apparently..."

"But I do love Teresa..." Patrick countered.

"Yet, you cannot see that she is worthy of all your trust and that you are worthy of her love. You still wear another woman's ring. This cannot continue. Tell me, Paddy, would you want Charlotte to be with a man who publicly still wore his late wife's ring?"

"But if I take off the ring, and she leaves me, then I will have nothing," Patrick tried to clarify his logic.

"Well then, you shall be haunted,'' his mother resumed, "by three ghosts.''

Inadvertently, Patrick guffawed. "Mom, tell me that what you just said isn't true...It's just not possible! There are no such things as ghosts. It's a carney trick, right?"

"Then what am I?" the figure responded. "Anyhow, time to go. This day is almost over."

"Stay, Mom, please..." Patrick pleaded.

"Paddy, I cannot stay, at least not this way. But know this: that I can see you always."

"She loved so many things...our Charlie," Patrick whispered. "And Angela...you would have loved them both."

"I do, son, I do. I am with them, you know? But you must listen to me now. Do not cling to the past. If you listen to me, you have a chance to be happy."

"Will you come back?"

"What, and haunt you?" the figure laughed. "No. This is the one and only time you will see me. And remember, you do not need my help. You have the best help anyone could hope for, if you would only let her."

The figure repeated: "Remember what I have told you: the choice is clear but it is yours to make. And kiss that new grandchild of mine for me once he's born. When he's older, tell him about his carney grandma."

With that, the figure floated again up and over the table, still hued in blue. Patrick opened his eyes wide, but saw nothing but grass in front of the Airstream. He sank back in his chair, and turned to look out over the darkness.

* * *

One hour later

That sure was a strange dream, Patrick thought. It was getting colder. Patrick looked in the cooler next to him; he still had a beer left, so he decided to indulge in one last one. The cold and the alcohol combined to lull him back to sleep.

Again, the same scritch-scratch sound stirred him from his light slumber. What the...? Another figure stood before him.

"Patrick Alexander Jane," called an eerily familiar voice from just in front of him.

Patrick jumped up, twice actually, as he recognized the figure as none other than his late grandfather from Ireland.

"Grampy?" he asked quickly, in a small quiet voice. "But you're..."

"Dead and buried next to that Barlow character," the figure told him.

Patrick looked at the figure with more care. Yep, it definitely looked like his grandfather...Damned if it wasn't...Patrick shook his head.

"So Paddy," the figure asked, "you really wanna end up like me?"

"What do you mean?" Patrick replied.

"I'm telling you, I didn't have a house. Came over from Ireland and went on the carney circuit. Could only ever trust carney folk to look out for me. Raised me a fine boy, my Alex, don't know what went wrong with him. Your Ma being gone didn't help things. So tell me, what's with that caravan?" He shrugged in the direction of the Airstream.

Patrick looked up, surprised.

"I know you's got money. You should put down roots, by a house."

Now there was a shocker.

"Anyway, here's the deal," the figure continued. "I gotta show you something." He moved, or rather floated, closer to Patrick, and as he did so, marked cards seemed to flutter from his pockets. "It seems that that mother of yours decided that I am the Ghost of the Past."

"You're kidding, Grampy. You gotta be kidding," answered Patrick.

"As I live, well, sort of, and breathe," the figure replied. "Stand up, Paddy my boy, and come over here."

Patrick somehow moved to the end of the table.

"Now give me that TV thing in your pocket."

It took a moment to figure out that he needed to hand over his phone.

Before Patrick could even figure out why he was handing it over, he found himself looking at a video.

"You remember this?" said the figure.

"Remember it...I just can't think of it. Hurts too much." For the scene playing on the phone's screen was almost forty years in the past. It was a birthday scene. A beautiful woman-his Mom!-was admiring a little boy's drawing, showing it to a man who looked like Alex Jane.

"Mom!" he whispered. "And Dad?"

Suddenly, a boy bounded into the room.

"Happy Birthday, Patrick honey," the woman on the screen warmly said, beckoning him over for a reluctant kiss.

"Is Grampy coming?" the boy replied.

Patrick looked at his spectral visitor.

"Yep, that's you," the figure purporting to be his grandfather stated.

Patrick turned his attention back to the screen. With a trembling finger, he traced the outline of his mother's face. He looked at his father's face, which somehow seemed less avaricious than he recalled. For the first time during this long night of remembrance, he felt comfort as he watched his childhood self interact with his mother and father on that long-ago, happy birthday.

"My family," Patrick affirmed. "Before Mom..." he choked, "left. Before Dad got mean..."

His family looked so happy. Carney folk wandered in and out of the scene-noisy, joyous and celebratory. Children's songs played on an old stereo, and his mother was chattering away, his dad even contributing to the chatter.

Just then, the figure reached out and swiped the screen with a spectral finger.

"Hey Grampy, what are you doing?" Patrick cried out.

The figure smirked and said, "Your Ma says I need to show you a birthday at another house, says it's a few years later."

And Patrick turned back to the screen, and saw a house. He knew that house: the Lisbon house in Chicago! Looking closer, he noticed that the lawn was unkempt, choking with weeds.

On screen, the home's door silently swung open, and Patrick saw a living room. A group of boys stood in one corner, sullen, afraid, cowering. They reminded him of his later childhood years. In another corner, on a ramrod-straight chair, sat a beautiful teenage girl.

"Teresa..." Patrick whispered.

"Yes indeedy, it's that luscious thing sleeping all by her lonesome in that there caravan over there," the figure verified.

The birthday girl sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast. Her birthday bounty was non-existent save for some dime-store cosmetics. In another corner, in a chair, his back to the children, was a man. Two empty bottles of whiskey lay on the ground beside him.

Suddenly, an impish little boy appeared in the room, running over to the girl.

"Come 'T', let's play hide and seek," he said. "Please?"

"Shaddup," roared the man with the empty whiskey bottles. He slowly rose, picked up an empty bottle, and wielding it over his head, threatened to bring it down on the little boy's head.

A sensation of doom swept over Patrick. This was, he knew without a doubt, Teresa's father. He watched as young Teresa took her little brother's hand, and for the first time, smiled. "It will be OK, Stan," she said, shielding him with her small body. It tugged at Patrick's heart, knowing that she had such an unhappy childhood.

"She loves ya, you know," the figure claiming to be his grandfather proclaimed, taking Patrick out of his reverie. "More than you deserve."

"Teresa..." Patrick whispered.

"Why the hell you want to end up like me, have your lady leave you, beats me, when you've got someone like her..." the figure stated.

"But I don't..."

"Then why the hell are you acting like this? Not talking to her about what's bothering ya, and for god's sake, wearing that ring..."

"I had a wife, and a kid, Grampy..." Patrick whispered.

"And? So what? You think you re the only person who's had a tragedy? I'm gonna tell you, Charlie and Angie are doing good up here."

"How do you know...?" Patrick asked.

"They ain't happy that you re not happy."

"But I am happy, the happiest since that day..."

"I know. But what I don't know is why you won't go all in. You think it was fun dying alone? You think it was fun having some strange people stuff my body in a coffin? You need her. Boy, do you need her. Meet her halfway on this cop thing. And Paddy, seriously, a COP?" Then, without warning, the figure claiming to be his grandfather said, "Geez Louise, now I've actually been nicer than I ever was when I was alive. Gotta go, son."

"Grampy..."

And he was gone.

"Angela," Patrick whispered, "I sure hope you've been kicking his butt around wherever it is you both are."

* * *

Some time later

I must be dreaming, Patrick thought. Grampy!

He grabbed his phone and turned it off and decided to walk a bit. He looked off into the dark distance, towards the trees, where he saw...Sophie? His savior in the institution.

Only, Dr. Sophie Miller looked really, really strange, kind of shrouded in steam.

"Come over!" the shrouded Sophie exuberantly exclaimed, "I've been waiting for you!"

Patrick was speechless, but then was able to eke out a strangled "Sophie?"

"Have a seat," the shrouded figure said, kicking a suddenly materialized chair towards him.

Patrick sat down on the chair, cautiously, as if afraid that the chair was not solid.

"By the way, this is really cool," the figure proclaimed, "I am the Ghost of the Present. Check me out!"

Patrick raised his eyes, and saw that Sophie indeed was sitting there. This must all be a figment of my imagination, Patrick thought, shaking his head.

The Sophie-Ghost of the Present then stood, and said, "Let's go over there, Patrick." She motioned to the Airstream.

Patrick looked at her like he was crazy. "Lisbon's sleeping in there! I don't want to wake her!"

Ghost Sophie clapped her hands, gleefully. "Aha ha! I knew it even then that there was the possibility of something between you!"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Look, whatever you need to show me, let's get this over with quick."

They walked to the Airstream, and when they reached the door, the figure stopped and said, "Just take a peek."

Patrick looked into his Airstream. It was devoid of most decorations. He saw himself slumped at the table, wearing old-man pajamas, a beer in one hand and a scowl on his face. He hadn't shaved in...weeks, it seemed, and was that a somewhat ripe odor he detected?

Then, his phone rang. Patrick saw himself answer the phone. As he picked it up, the caller hung up without speaking. The shrouded figure walked over to the phone and checked caller ID. "Cho," she said.

Patrick just continued to stare at the sight of himself, alone. Morose, sad, alone.

"My instructions were to show you another scene," the figure continued.

Before Patrick could react, the figure did the hand-waving/dream sequence motions from 'Wayne's World', complete with sound effects, and Patrick found himself looking at the FBI bullpen. Patrick was taken aback, because everyone was somber.

"I think she's over there," the Sophie-figure whispered conspiratorially, and suddenly Patrick saw Teresa, who'd clearly been in tears earlier. Cho was awkwardly patting her back.

Patrick could not bear to watch this scene. Why was Lisbon so unhappy?

"She was happy when you were together," the figure told him. "But you gave her an ultimatum about the job, and...you followed through. You notice you're not in this scene."

Patrick had no response.

"What she needs from you is not your protection, Patrick," the shrouded figure replied. "She needs your confidence in her abilities."

"But how can I be happy if I worry about her all the time?" Patrick asked. "I can't lose her." Patrick shot him a despairing glance.

"Patrick, she loves you. You're her family now. But you gotta tell her, Patrick, you gotta say something about how you feel. Don't let your insecurities keep you from what you could have."

"She's in love with me. I don't know why," Patrick whispered, looking again at the FBI scene.

Sophie's spectral hand seemed to touch his arm in a caress. "And one more thing, Patrick. This..." He felt a cold blast across his left hand. "...needs to go."

A mist hovered over his ring.

* * *

Very Close to Midnight

A light rain was falling, as Patrick shook the droplets from his head and drowsily looked at the scene in front of him. His pajama'd self was now lying like a plank of driftwood next to Teresa.

Teresa did have a point, he reluctantly admitted. She was trained and could take care of herself.

He stood, ready to return to his table outside, but was startled when a woman stood before him outside the Airstream. Blinking the rain from his eyelashes, Patrick noticed that the woman was wearing a hooded cloak, and seemed surrounded by fog.

This was no longer Sophie.

Slowly, the womanly figure raised her head and lifted her hands to the hood of her cloak. Even more slowly, her thin hands brushed the cloak from her face.

Patrick gasped. "Angela?"

The cloaked figure slowly nodded, and Patrick thought he saw transparent tears in her eyes. The sense of comfort Patrick had experienced upon seeing his mother earlier that evening returned to him ten-fold.

"Angela," he repeated, almost reverently, reaching out to try to touch her.

"Yes, my dear Paddy, but tonight I am also your Ghost of the Future," the figure affirmed.

"Angela," Patrick repeated, sinking to his knees, sobbing.

The figure reached out, and softly drew her cloak around Patrick. "I loved you so much, my only love. I'm so sorry I had to leave you." She caressed his head, and Patrick tried to feel her, surrounding her with his arms, only to be greeted by emptiness.

Angela then remembered her purpose. "Stand, Patrick, and come with me," she said.

Leaving the Airstream, the two walked over towards the trees. The fog that had surrounded the woman followed them. As they approached the trees, Patrick noticed that there was someone there. He recalled earlier evenings, when he and Teresa sealed their love with a kisses. Those trees were a special place for them.

Patrick could see a woman standing among the trees. Teresa! His Teresa! But this Teresa was a lot older; with a beautiful gray streak in her hair, but a face lined and worn. She was crying.

"Paddy, this wonderful woman no longer celebrates the holidays she loves," the womanly figure next to him stated.

By now, the anvils the other ghosts had dropped on him had finally made an impression on Patrick. "It's because of me, because I didn't trust her and drove her away," he simply stated.

"And look over there..." the figure that had been his wife commanded.

A teenage boy in a strangely futuristic helmet rode up and down a nearby path on a bicycle.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"Your son," the figure stated matter-of-factly.

"My son!" Patrick exclaimed in wonder. "What's he doing?" Patrick asked.

"He's looking for you. Only, you've left."

"Oh."

Patrick looked from the scene of Teresa to the scene of his son-to-be, despair filling his heart. Each was lost in their own way.

"Does it have to be like this?" he plaintively asked.

"I know that you know better than that, my love. I think you know the answer to that question."

"Angela, I've missed you so much..." Patrick replied. "I miss you and Charlie every day. Especially today..."

"Yes, today is the day Charlie and I had to leave you."

He tried to reach out to her, but she was still ephemeral. "It was my fault, Angela. My fault, for taunting him."

"No, it was never your fault. You've done so much good in your life, Patrick," she said. "You took care of our killer when no one else could. You've honored us, your wife and daughter, in life and in death. Because of this, I will show you indeed that it doesn't have to be this way."

Patrick didn't know how, but somehow, they found themselves in front of a yellow house. It sure looked like a happy home. Happy sounds came from the house, music intermixed with chatter and laughter, intermixed with the sounds of a barking dog.

Suddenly, a small car drove up and parked. Its front passenger door opened, and a young teenage girl ran out, carrying a present. Patrick watched her run to the door and ring the bell.

He heard happy exclamations, as he saw a young teen boy open the door.

"Happy Birthday!" the visiting teen girl replied.

Then, Teresa appeared at the door, hugged and greeted the girl, and stepped outside. She didn't seem to see Patrick or his companion as she walked over to the car.

"Won't you come in, please," he heard her say to the adult at the wheel.

"Oh that's so nice of you to ask. I've been dying to see your house."

"Look at those two," Teresa said, motioning to the two awkward teens.

"Young love!" exclaimed the adult in the car.

"Teresa...we have a son?" Patrick whispered. Teresa looked older, to be sure, but also much happier and, he noted, she was definitely not as thin as she had recently been. His eyes followed Teresa and her guest as they returned to the house.

"Go ahead, take a closer look, my Paddy." With Angela's permission, he approached the house, walked up the steps and peered in a window.

A birthday celebration was in full swing. His son and his girlfriend were playing a holographic game, and Teresa was ensconced on the sofa next to him-Patrick Jane!-smiling over at...him. He noticed that he still had a full head of hair, albeit gray, but somehow he appeared younger.

He turned to Ghost Angela in wonder. "This is my future? With Teresa?"

"It's your choice, my only love. I know you will make the right one," the Angela Ghost of the Future proclaimed. "You've already done the hardest part, Patrick darling. You chose to love again. You chose the right woman. You don't need us-Charlie and me-anymore; you need her."

She leaned towards him. "And the beautiful thing is, she needs you too."

Then, Ghost Angela looked pointedly at his ring. "But that, my love, my Patrick, belongs to me now. Not you and not her. Please return it to me soon!"

* * *

After Midnight

With a jolt, Patrick awoke for the final time that night. Suddenly, he realized that this, his worst and darkest day, was over, and that it was within his power to make a choice. He could keep going as he had in the past, or he could change. He could share this day with those who loved him, maybe even make it a special day when he could share his memories with his son.

A son! Patrick knew what he had to do. Take off his ring; truly work things out with Teresa and her job, and do it now. Because that was the only way he would have a future worth living, a family, and most of all, Teresa. A future that would truly honor Angela and Charlotte.

He ran to the Airstream, and opened the door. He was no longer afraid to love all the way.

Teresa sat, waiting for him. She'd woken, and was worried about him. She sprang up, ran to him, and embraced him. "You are not alone," she whispered as she peppered his face with kisses. "You have me, and together, we're the strongest."

"I know," Patrick replied, and kissed her for courage. "Teresa, I need to tell you something. Can we talk?"

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"More than alright, but there is something I have to tell you."

Teresa looked at him, eyes serious, but encouraging.

"Will I be upset?"

"Yes."

"Are you leaving me to sail around the world?"

"No."

"There's no beekeeper suits in the closet?"

"No, my love."

Teresa then sighed loudly, took his hand and led him to the edge of the bed.

"Teresa, I need to tell you something...to do something I should've done you when I first told you I loved you..."

"Shh. Just tell me now," she replied.

"My ring."

There was silence.

"Your ring?" Teresa finally responded.

"I think I should take it off."

And they talked for a long time.

* * *

Two AM

Teresa Lisbon had been to many a crime scene. She'd seen a multitude of bodies. But this was personal. She held him as he vividly described the chaos wreaked by Red John upon his child and wife. Time slowed as she encouraged him to describe every detail. He was cold and clinical as he described the scene, the aftermath, what the medical examiner had told him. All through the ordeal, she cried-for them, for him. When he was done, he kissed her tears away and asked if she had any questions.

"What was it like?" she shyly asked, "With Red John...?"

He knew exactly what she meant. What was it like when he choked the life out of Red John.

"Did it help?"

He looked her in the eyes. "No."

He watched her carefully. "Listen, Teresa, I know this is a lot to absorb. I won't blame you if you decide this is too much."

"Oh Patrick," she sighed, "I am not giving you up." She wrapped her arms around him. She held on to him tightly, pressing kisses up and down his jawline. "Come, let's go to sleep. I have that firing range activity in a few hours."

"Let me change," Patrick said.

As Patrick hung his jacket up, he reached into his pocket. Pulling out the note that Teresa had left him that previous morning, he was surprised to find more in his pocket than he thought he'd had. Out came a marked carney card.

Patrick shook his head.

"Grampy?" he whispered in amazement, climbing into bed with his future, but not before he slipped the ring from his finger.


End file.
